I hesitate to use the term “men” to address you as I have seldom encountered a group of males that are as immature as you were this morning.
I woke up at 7:30am, took a shower, selected my new gray striped maxi dress and cardigan from my closet, and was out the door by 8:27am, walking briskly to school and trying to keep my unruly hair from getting stuck in the straps of my purse. I saw you as I lifted my head to look across the street, at the crosswalk. You were in a large, clumped group; I counted nine of you. I was listening to music with my headphones, minding my own business, and made my way toward you, as you were impeding my route to school, and ungraciously taking up the whole sidewalk.
At a distance of about eight yards, you started to part, like the red sea. I watched you, my eyes taking stock of what you were wearing and what you were doing from beneath the tinted lenses of my RayBans. I continued to walk with confidence, and subtly switched off my music, because if you were going to say something, I wanted to be able to hear it. There’s no nice way to say this next bit. You stared. You stared at me, at 8:31am, with absolute lust in your eyes.
One of you — I’ll call you Sloppy — took a long drag of your cigarette and narrowed your eyes as I started to walk past, trying to make eye-contact with me. You then blew out the smoke into my face, trying to get my attention. Your buddy next to you, Caveman, whistled long and low and gave me the once-over twice. And the rest of your buddies just watched, nodded, and smiled that lusty smile that Dirtbags have plastered on their faces when they see a “hot piece of ass” walk by.
I kept walking. I looked forward, and kept my music turned off, my keys curled in my hand, and thanked the heavens above that it was 8:31am and not 11:31pm. I heard all of you catcall and whistle as I walked further down the street. I heard it.
Let me say this: I’m not a girl that gets stared at often. I am not a “hot piece of ass” — I never have been, and never will be. In fact, I can’t think of the last time that I’ve been noticeably checked out by someone other than the guy I’m getting married to. I’ve been blessed with big hair and a big attitude, and more often than not, I’m wearing gym clothes and little to no make-up. I’m more concerned with the content and quality of my character than that of my wardrobe.
When you men treated me with such little respect this morning, two conscious thoughts formed in my mind:
- You, “sirs,” are the definition of scumbags and pigs.
- Be thankful that my brother was not present to watch your treatment of me, and be even more thankful that my fiancé and father weren’t present either. I, for one, wanted to slam a brick in your faces; I can’t even imagine how the three most important men in my life would have felt.
I feel bad for you nine men; you must have so much little self-respect and respect for women that I can’t even begin to fathom how you are all even functioning humans.
Really? Wolf-whistling at a young woman, whose arms and legs are completely covered by a baggy dress and cardigan, at 8:31am? Are you a joke? It must be hard to be insolent lowlifes, and I wish you luck with that.
I hope that the nine of you enjoy the pathetic lives that you live, and that your own mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters don’t ever find out about your true selves.
And if they do, and don’t care — or worse yet, if they do and can’t escape from you — I hope you know that what goes around, comes around. Karma is real, and its bite is definitely worse than its bark.
With all the disrespect in the world,